‘In any event, I expect Mademoiselle Marmion is more likely to admire Napoleon than Wellington, Eleanor.’
The scars. She should have realised they were battle scars. And that also explained his animosity towards her. How many years had Britain and France been at war? Celeste pushed her chair back, preparatory to leaving the table. ‘I am sorry. It did not occur to me that— I was so delighted to be here in England, so happy that hostilities between our countries had ended, that I did not consider the fact that I am—was until recently—no doubt still am in your eyes, Monsieur, the enemy.’
‘Mademoiselle, please do not distress yourself,’ Sir Charles said rather desperately. ‘My brother did not mean— You have it quite wrong, does she not, Jack?’
‘Entirely wrong. I have no objection to your being French,’ Jack Trestain said in a tone that left it clear that he still objected to her having spied on him. ‘I repeat, I am no longer a soldier, Mademoiselle.’
‘But you were until recently?’ Appalled, thinking back to the horrific reports she had read in the newspapers, Celeste forgot all about Jack Trestain’s rudeness. ‘You were at Waterloo? Mon Dieu, of course you were. Your arm,’ she exclaimed, wondering that she had been so foolish not to have guessed.
‘How did you know about Jack’s arm?’
Sir Charles was frowning at her. Celeste gaped. She couldn’t think of a single thing to say in explanation.
‘Mademoiselle obviously noticed that I’m favouring my left arm at the moment,’ Jack Trestain said, stepping in unexpectedly to cover her gaffe. ‘Being an artist, I am sure she is rather more observant than most.’
She was surprised by his fleeting smile. The man’s mood seemed to change with the wind. When he smiled, he looked so very different. He did not look as if he smiled often. He was a battle-hardened soldier. Those terrible scars. Realising all three pairs of eyes were on her, Celeste rallied. ‘Yes, that’s it,’ she said, nodding furiously, ‘Monsieur Trestain has hit the nail on the head.’
He tilted his head slightly in acknowledgement and flashed her another smile, one that lit his dark-brown eyes this time, and she felt absurdly gratified.
‘Well now,’ Sir Charles said, after receiving an encouraging nod from his wife, ‘the day’s getting on. I have a meeting with my lawyer in town at noon, Mademoiselle Marmion, but I thought I could give you a quick run through of our plans for the new gardens, just to give you an idea of where the most extensive changes will be, for it is these areas we wish to have immortalised by you on canvas, so to speak. What do you say?’
‘If you are pressed for time, Charlie, then why not let me look after Mademoiselle Marmion.’
It was Sir Charles’s turn to gape. ‘You, Jack?’
Lady Eleanor pursed her lips. ‘I am not sure that would be such a good idea.’
Her husband, however, had recovered from his surprise. ‘Come now, my dear, are we not forever encouraging Jack to embark on some gainful enterprise to aid his recuperation?’
His wife looked unconvinced. ‘It will take up a deal of Jack’s time, and you cannot deny, with all due respect to him, he has not precisely been the most patient of men recently. Every time our little Robert asks him...’
‘We have told our son not to pester his uncle. When Jack is good and ready, he will tell his nephew all about Waterloo,’ Sir Charles said, rubbing his hands together and slanting his brother a nervous look. ‘Jack is still recuperating from some serious injuries, my love,’ he reproved gently. ‘He is bound to be a little short of—of patience.’
‘My point exactly,’ Lady Eleanor said. ‘Mademoiselle Marmion will have even more questions than Robert, no doubt, about the changes, the estate...’
‘Which I am better placed than most to answer,’ Jack Trestain interjected, ‘having been raised here.’
Sir Charles beamed. ‘An excellent point. And showing Mademoiselle around will give you the opportunity to see more of the countryside, for I wish Mademoiselle to make a few landscapes of the wider estate. You might even get a taste for country living, see somewhere close at hand that takes your fancy. I can heartily recommend it.’
This last was said with some hopeful enthusiasm, and greeted with some disdain. A bone of contention, obviously.
‘Perhaps, Charlie,’ Jack Trestain answered, ‘stranger things have happened.’
‘Excellent! That is settled then, provided Mademoiselle has no objection?’
Celeste couldn’t fathom Jack Trestain at all. One minute he was furious with her, the next he was covering up for her and the next he was offering to put himself out for her and spend time in her company. He was volatile, to put it mildly, but he also had a delightful smile, and a body which she found distracting, and she had not found the body of any man distracting for a long time. Not since— But she would not think of that.
Realising that they were awaiting an answer from her, Celeste shook her head. ‘No, I have no objection whatsoever.’
‘Why did I volunteer?’ Jack had not been expecting this to be the first question the intriguing Mademoiselle Marmion asked him, though perhaps he should have. It was obvious she had a sharp intellect and an observant eye. Whether that was because she was an artist, as he had suggested in order to extricate her from her faux pas regarding his arm, he did not know. What was inescapable was that within minutes of meeting her she had already managed to throw his behaviour into sharp relief. He could not be entirely oblivious to the effect his erratic temper was having on Charlie and Eleanor, but his brother’s softly-softly approach had allowed them all to be complicit in ignoring it.
Until now. Jack shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I have been somewhat out of temper, on account of my injuries. It is the least I can do.’ It would suffice as an explanation. It would have to, since he didn’t have a better one to offer, being as confused by his recent behaviour as anyone. Which was something he was reluctant to concede, since it implied there was an underlying cause, which there was not. At least not one he cared to admit to Charlie. Or indeed anyone.
As an explanation, it also conveniently excluded the fact that Mademoiselle Marmion herself had influenced his impulsive decision. Had she been a small, balding Frenchman with a goatee beard, would he have been so keen to offer his services? Indeed he would not, but that was another thing to which he would rather not admit. Jack smiled at her maliciously. ‘If you would rather have Lady Eleanor’s services as a guide...’
‘No,’ she said hurriedly, just as he had known she would, ‘no, I certainly would not. Lady Eleanor cannot decide if I am to be treated as a superior servant or an inferior guest.’
‘I’ll let you into a little secret about Eleanor,’ Jack said. ‘She is the youngest of four daughters of the vicar a few parishes over, and though no one gives a fig for that save herself, as a consequence she is inclined to over-play her role of lady of the manor. Don’t be too hard on her. She makes my brother happy, which is good enough for me. Or it should be.’
‘Have a care, Monsieur, or I might think you a sensitive soul beneath that prickly exterior.’ Mademoiselle Marmion frowned. ‘Which brings
